The Devil's Consort
by Lady of Pride
Summary: Once more a prisoner of Graf von Krolock and his kin, a still-mortal Alfred prays against all hope to the God that they all claim is dead...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I want to thank you all for the wonderful feedback, especially **valancystar**, who is a wonderful sounding board and fellow fan. Spread the love, everyone! Let's reignite the TdV flame of the English-speaking community...

Title: The Devil's Consort

Fandom: Tanz der Vampire

Pairings: Herbert/Alfred (human), implied Alfred/Sarah, and a hint of von Krolock/Alfred

Rating: Nc-17 overall

Disclaimer: The heart of the musical resides in Vienne, though the plot itself belongs to Polanski.

Warnings: Homoeroticism and vampirism... although, perhaps to a greater extent than that of the musical (movie).

POV(s): Predominantly Alfred and Herbert, although I might sneak in something from von Krolock along the way.

Format: Chaptered

_Spoilers/Timeline:_ Takes place following the end of the musical, _supposing_ Alfred manages to escape Sarah's bite... _Also_ supposing he doesn't quite escape von Krolock's company.

_Summary:__ Once again a prison of von Krolock and his kin, Alfred prays to the God that they all claim is dead..._

_~*'Our nightmare is over now...' _–Alfred (_Draußen ist Freiheit_ – the reprise)_*~_

**~Chapter One~**

The first thing he discovers when they stop for a breath—when she collapses into his arms like a lifeless doll—is that his darling Sarah is suddenly unbearably..._cold_.

He brushes the pale exposure of her skin, tracing her shoulder with his thumb, and marvels at the absence of warmth. Absolutely _nothing_...as though she was made of stone...

As though she was _dead_.

Head resting in the crook of his neck, panting heavily against his skin, Sarah eases her meagre weight into Alfred's trembling arms and murmurs something comforting about the woods and the mountains; about the freedom they could find here, outside, where there is no one to stop them. The world, she whispers, is waiting for them just beyond the horizon, where they can spend an eternity together if he wants to, doing exactly as they please.

Alfred is enchanted by her sweet voice; her soft caress...but he is suffering from the sensation of something sordid crawling around beneath his skin, _festering_ there like an infection that has finally taken hold. It creeps into his lungs, good and chilled, before spreading up to the crown of his head, settling there like a fever not easily broken.

The euphoria of having escaped the castle together with her and the professor is beginning to fade.

"Sarah?"

"_Alfred,"_ she breathes, lifting her dainty hand to cradle the side of his face. She nudges his chin up with the bridge of her nose and kisses his adam's apple, so startlingly uncharacteristic of the girl he once knew that it forces him to freeze in place, simply holding her, as if he's crossed the threshold and can't find the strength to turn back. He's her puppet now, and she's pulling his strings. _"You're too good to me, Alfred. __**Stay**__ with me, Alfred..."_

Alfred. Alfred. _Alfred_...

He's never heard her say his name so many times before.

He glances over his shoulder to check up on the professor. The man already has his little notebook in hand, scribbling away fervently, as though he's finally found the Holy Grail of his studies. The sight is distressing, despite its familiarity—just another reminder that Abronsius is more interested in the science behind life and death than the actual importance of the two.

For one so old and frail, Alfred is truly surprised that Abronsius has so little respect for the emancipation of the immortal. How many times has he nearly frozen to death in the snow? How many perils has he thrown himself into with the pomposity of a mythological paladin? The man is certainly lucky to still be alive. Why, only last win—

His breath hitches in his throat as Sarah suddenly presses herself decisively _closer_. A perfect fit.

Alfred blushes.

"P-professor Abronsius..."

"Not now," the older man mumbles. "A moment, _if you please_."

"But—"

"_Don't bother with him,"_ Sarah chuckles, fisting the front of his tawdry frock coat, _leaning_ heavily into him, practically _clawing_... The lapel tears as she pulls him down to his knees, the snow soaking through his leggings, before crawling into his lap. _"We could have the world, darling... We're free now, you understand? Absolutely __**free**__..." _

"Not really," he murmurs sheepishly.

Sarah laughs, high-pitch and louring, not too unlike the other vampires Alfred had seen at the ball, flouncing about with their rotting fans and putrescent appeal—so purulent in comparison to von Krolock and his son. She resumes kissing his neck as he tries to crane his head away, _shoving_ him over the moment he leans too far back—and then she straddles his lap like a lover, spreading her hands over his trembling stomach, _savouring_ the sensation, as if _this_ is the most natural thing in the world...

Alfred stops breathing for a moment.

Smiling, she pats his chest gently, once, before lifting her hand high above her head. She tears his collar in one clean stroke, nicking his throat with her extended nails, and finally pounces on him, fangs bare, before he has a chance to squirm away.

Alfred gasps in pain, a delayed reaction, and thrusts the palm of his hand under her chin before her teeth can meet their mark, his carotid artery—the only figurative thread of life that matters to him at the moment, despite the fact that there are other vampires chasing them, as well as Koukol, and the _wolves_...

Abronsius throws his book at her.

Sarah squeals in surprise, head jerking back as he nails her in the nose. Alfred's face is subsequently flecked with coagulated blood as she raises her hands to shield herself, a brief opportunity that Alfred eagerly exploits to shove her bodily off his waist.

"Not a _moment_ of peace!" Abronsius hollers. "Not so much as a _breath_ before the disease takes hold! _You see that_, my boy? Hm—you _see_?"

Confused, Alfred wastes a second or two gawking at the professor before scrambling to his feet, _away_ from where Sarah is sitting in the snow, fussing over her broken nose. "I..._what_?"

"Chagal took longer."

'_Chagal took longer'..._took longer to...to...

'_Die,'_ Alfred thinks miserably.

Sarah is _dead_...

The woman in question hisses venomously as she wipes the blood from her face, rising steadily to her feet, skin practically _glowing_ in the pale moonlight as her eyes fall on the older gentleman... Alfred knows that stance—that _stare_—and what it means for the professor if he doesn't do something soon.

Alfred lunges.

Sarah catches the professor first.

Jolted, Abronsius loses his balance in the snow, arms wind-milling comically before together he and Sarah tumble headlong through the trees, down the steep incline toward the make-shift road. Alfred reaches out for the old man futilely, fingertips brushing Abronsius' coat sleeve before both of his companions disappear into the maze of coppice and evergreens...

Alfred staggers after them, tripping over an extended root before landing painfully on his knees. They vanish ahead of him into the darkness, seemingly consumed by the night, as he stares on in disbelief.

"Professor..." he murmurs.

"...They will live, Alfred."

He nearly screams.

Turning is difficult in his position, and he twists his left knee in the process, but Alfred eventually finds his balance in the snow and takes a calculated step back. Any chance he has of escaping is slim, seeing as the sun is still an hour away from rising, but there's still a small part of him—the source of his naivety he supposes—that continues to hope against all hope that someone will come to save him.

Frantically, he wonders if he should just dive after Sarah and Abronsius and be done with it...

"She was close," Krolock remarks quietly, gaze falling on Alfred's throat. There's a gleam in his eye that betrays his baser urges, like a dying man that's finally found water.

"But...but she didn't..."

"No," Krolock agrees, "Not yet, anyway."

Trembling, Alfred covers the puncture wounds with his hand, the extent of his defensive abilities at the moment, but the simple gesture is enough to propel Krolock into action and the man takes a long stride forward, closing half the distance between them before the Count can compose himself again.

Fidgeting, Krolock flattens out the front of his vest with his hands and finally lifts his gaze to Alfred's eyes. "Anther sip, I think, will do the trick."

"_But you_—"

Krolock lifts his hand, a gesture that demands absolute silence.

Alfred's voice abandons him completely. He can't look away.

"There is something you must understand about this hunger, Alfred—that it is insatiable..._eternal_. Sarah only managed to whet my appetite, and I've already promised you a place in the greater scheme of things, so please..._relax_."

_Relax_...

Alfred feels faint.

Speckles of colour and light dance across his vision as he collapses, but he doesn't hit the ground. There are arms around him, supporting him, tugging his ruined collar farther open as a greedy mouth descends upon his wound, lapping at the dried blood, murmuring something about eternity and the many wonders he will find there...

There is a voice in the distance that is calling his name...

Krolock doesn't move.

Alfred tries to lift his head, to search for the source of that voice, but the task is almost too much for him to manage in this state and his throat remains exposed. Krolock continues to hold him, like a marionette, and turns to greet the newcomer, talking in low, gentle tones, as if trying to pacific the stranger.

Vaguely, Alfred wonders if he's been saved.

He continues to listen to the conversation—or _tries_ to, in any case, because suddenly he finds himself drifting away, arms and legs being rearranged as he's handed off to someone else. And then he's flying—or at least it _feels_ as though he's flying, because the wind is whipping through his hair and the world is turning beneath him. There is only darkness here and the soothing silence that comes with the deepest of slumbers...

His thoughts wander to Sarah and Abronsius as the shadows steal him away. He thinks of sunrise and of warm, breathing people—hundreds of thousands of them, altogether, far away from this strange, open land. Out there—somewhere—is his freedom, and he's determined to find it, to free himself from this castle; this_ place_...

Against his better judgement, Alfred surrenders to this darkness.

And it welcomes him.

_~*'God is dead...' _-Graf von Krolock (_Gott is tot_)_*~_

A/N: Wow...this thing took forever to write. I've edited it so many times this far that I really won't be insulted or surprised if you tell me I've left a mistake (or if something, more or less, sounds odd).

Thank you for sticking with it to the end of chapter one, though. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I sincerely apologize for the freakishly long delay. It took me forever to write this, edit it, _delete_ it, and finally rewrite it a handful of times until I was satisfied with the finished product.

In any case, thank you for the beautiful reviews. I promise not to be as tardy in the future!

Title: The Devil's Consort  
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire  
Pairings: Herbert/Alfred (human), implied Alfred/Sarah and Krolock/Alfred, as well as a _hint_ of von Krolock/Alfred  
Rating: Nc-17 overall  
Disclaimer: The heart of the musical resides in Vienne, though the plot itself belongs to Polanski.  
Warnings: Homoeroticism and vampirism... although, perhaps to a greater extent than that of the musical (movie).  
POV(s): Predominantly Alfred and Herbert, although I might sneak in something from von Krolock along the way.  
Format: Chaptered  
_Spoilers/Timeline:_ Takes place following the end of the musical, _supposing_ Alfred manages to escape Sarah's bite... _Also_ supposing he doesn't quite escape von Krolock's company.  
_Summary:__ Once again a prison of von Krolock and his kin, Alfred prays to the God that they all claim is dead..._

**~Chapter Two~**

There is something to be learned from a deep and convalescing sleep, to watch the gentle rise and fall of a heavy chest as the body wages war against the notorious _'fever_'. Here, in this cold and sombre place, he is reminded of life's inherent fragility—of his darling Alfred and the boy's coquettish blush, once plump with blood and full of vim, now thin and small and _weak_...

Beads of sweat dot Alfred's face and neck, eyelids fluttering as he tries to evade the demons of his mind. His skin burns to the touch; his lips are moist.

Herbert wants to kiss him.

He lays Alfred down atop the duvet before stretching out alongside him, pressing up against his trembling body as the poor child goes on dreaming. Herbert wishes he could have a peek into that tender mind, but settles, instead, for stroking the side of Alfred's face ever so gently...until his eyes fall on the angry little mark adorning Alfred's tender throat and the drop of blood on his torn collar.

His father had kissed the boy.

_His_ boy.

Such a deplorable act, considering how _generous_ Herbert had been to Sarah Chagal...

But his father had hardly been satiated by Koukol's body and Herbert would be a hypocrite if he said the man could've waiteduntil someone else wandered by. In fact, he was hard pressed to say _anyone_ had been pleased after that little fiasco, though he was grateful for the lack of complaints from the others before they had slithered back to their graves in silent dissatisfaction to rest until the next winter solstice. His only concern _now_ is the 'poor' Sarah Chagal...

He knows his father will collect her at sunset.

Honestly, though, he could hardly care less...

He is woken from his reverie when Alfred stirs beside him, murmuring in his sleep. Herbert recognizes the tell-tale signs of apprehension and rolls over on top of him, resting his weight on his elbows as he watches that angelic face, _waiting_...

Alfred opens his eyes, at first weary and then at once afraid. He gasps—

And then there is nothing but silence.

Herbert smiles as he takes the opportunity to gaze into those dark eyes as Alfred's pupils shrink into two fine points. The boy is completely under his thrall now, trapped where consciousness bleeds into oblivion, heart racing, as he tries to keep a grip on reality. Suddenly and inexplicably slipping..._slipping_...

Alfred's body relaxes, eyes no longer wide, vision focused on an imaginary horizon somewhere in the forevermore as Herbert leans down to steal a kiss. Just one. Then another. And again, because he cannot help himself, deepening it as he swipes his tongue in between those delectably pale lips for a little _taste_...

Alfred lies soft and docile beneath him. A living doll.

His _love_.

Herbert retreats a moment to admire the display, the boy's flavour lingering on the tip of his tongue. Such a _beautiful_ boy. Herbert is utterly mesmerised.

Until he's reminded of the bruise.

Taking him by the chin, Herbert turns Alfred's head to the side to hide the hideous thing from sight so that the darling's glossy eyes now observe the dusty curtains instead of his inamorato. Then Herbert noses that lovely throat before giving it a quick peck.

Tonight is the night. Herbert _knows_. He'll bite him and birth him, and then they'll fuck like animals until he can satisfy the internal beast with something other than blood.

And then... and then they'll make love.

"There is a reason you stopped me."

He retracts his fangs and sighs. Throwing a glance over his shoulder at the figure hovering in the doorway, Herbert manages to compose himself enough to say, "Is that _so..._?"

"Heat of the moment, Herbert...Doesn't he look exquisite?"

"He _always_ does."

"And what of him when he's dead?" his father inquires judiciously, though Herbert suspects the man is musing on much more than _this_ particular human being. After all, Sarah fled as soon as the opportunity presented itself, given her new-found powers and congenital _need_ for freedom. "You might want to entertain yourself with a mortal lover before you give him the means to escape. His mind will be malleable in life. He can still see reason."

Oh, but that _blood_ and that _pretty_, little pulse...

"You only want to play with him yourself," Herbert whines, nosing said pulse as he takes a deep breath. Alfred's scent is intoxicating. Human emotions; what a _treat_. "You know I don't enjoy having to the share."

"Neither do I, Herbert." The tone of his father's voice leaves no room for argument. If Count von Krolock had any desire to couple with their guest tonight, there was really nothing he could do about it. "If I wanted him for myself, I would have taken him already."

Herbert whines again, low and deep in the back of his throat, almost quietly enough not to have been heard. But he understands that he's tired—the sun is already up over the horizon, and having to share Koukol's mangled body with the many other members of this family left him completely at the mercy of the beast.

He really did enjoy the notion of a human lover, though, at least for a little while. The warmth, he finds, is so _enticing_.

How could he resist?

"Somehow, I doubt our darling Alfred will be thrilled with the decision."

Krolock chuckles softly to himself. It's a hearty laugh for one as cold as he. "Perhaps you should give him a year. If he finds his existence too much to bear by the next celebration, we'll offer him a _solution_."

Herbert smiles. A year of a mortal Alfred all to himself without any interference whatsoever, either from Sarah Chagal or that bumbling professor... "Very well," he mumbles. "Shall I leave him here?"

"I see no reason why not. He's hardly going anywhere."

Smiling, Herbert gives his _mon cheri_ a quick peck on the cheek before lifting the veil. Alfred's eyes immediately flutter closed.

He will sleep soundly until the night.

Giving the human one last, long look, Herbert slips off the bed and follows his father down into the darkness of the catacombs. He will tend to the mortal when he wakes...

All, he decides, is well in the world today.

**~*~Alfred~*~**

When the sound of a bird flapping madly against the windowpane wakes him that evening, it is with such lethargy that he almost feels like surrendering to sleep once more. But through the haze of his slumber he is assaulted by the unpleasant sensation of cold sweat and the heady aroma of something bittersweet, and then he realizes, dimly, that not all is well in the world today.

He tries to move, though his arms and legs feel like lead, so warm and utterly weak that he can't help but wonder if this was what '_death'_ is like, a violent pull that is patient, though no less relentless; a slow seduction to the inevitable...

But then the bird flutters away, and instead of yielding to that enticing _pull_ Alfred decides he would much rather spend his time figuring out what God and fate have in store for him. He is alive for a reason, though what that reason may be is beyond his wildest imagination.

Fighting down a wave of nausea, he lifts a heavy hand to run his fingers through his hair. Surely, he must have been poisoned. Or perhaps he had been afflicted with a fever, just now broken? It would certainly explain the fatigue.

Arm flopping uselessly to his side, Alfred focuses on the slim beam of light on the far wall, the only illumination of the room, compliments of a single crack in the gaudy curtains. Orange instead of gold, and steadily fading now, he realizes that the sun is due to set at any given moment, taking that glorious daylight with it—

—_was the ball. They would have to steal her away from him then, out from under his very nose, and make a break for the carri—_

If not for the fact that he's almost entirely paralyzed, Alfred would've fallen off the bed.

He's back at the castle.

_Graf_ von _Krolock's_ castle, to be precise...

_Lord_, help him now.

The nausea returns as he realizes the severity of the situation at hand. He'd barely been able to escape the _last_ time he fled the castle and that had been with the assistance of the professor. There are no crosses left to save him now, or doe-eyed girls to impel him. His weapons are gone, and so is the carriage, and his captors are _more_ than aware of what he is capable of when given the opportunity to act...There are no second chances now. God had dealt him his hand before and he failed to make do with it what he could.

Now..._now_ he has _nothing_.

He's startled from his thoughts when the curtain moves, cutting the light off with a finality that frightens him.

Alfred doesn't have the strength to flinch, so instead he holds his breath and listens carefully as someone hums a familiar tune in the darkness, accompanied by the sound of fabric shifting as the curtains are arranged with a sharp tug before his guest wanders across the room toward the bed.

He doesn't really need to guess who it is.

When a lamp is finally lit, the feeble light casting foreboding shadows in every corner of the room, Alfred finds Herbert standing there beside him. _Smiling_. "Good evening, _mon cheri_."

He takes a deep breath, mind reeling, knowing all too well that Herbert is a creature of impulse.

He _also _knows he needs a distraction if he ever hopes to leave this place with his dignity intact. "...Do you really speak French?"

Herbert blinks slowly—once, and then again, obviously caught off guard by the causal question. But then he laughs a little, as though it had been a joke, and his smile warms into something approaching human. "_En effet, je parle français_! I am of nobility, am I not? Indulging myself in the fairer languages of the world is practically my _duty_, _Liebling_."

Vaguely, he nods.

"And what about you, darling? Is there, _perhaps_, a little _French_ under your belt...?"

He doesn't miss the double entendre but chooses to let it slide in hopes that he can keep the conversation from taking any sudden or unexpected turns that would inevitably end in his nudity. He likes his clothes exactly as they are; _on _him. "Yes," he admits quietly, because he is familiar with a family's expectations of an only son, filling that role himself among his five siblings, "but only a little."

"Nothing else?"

"No...not really."

"No matter," Herbert coos, taking the liberty to sit down beside Alfred's left hip. "I could teach you something, if you'd like. Romanian is ever so beautiful..."

Alfred tries to inch his way over to the other side of the bed, though the effort is effectively crushed when Herbert reaches over to slap his thigh. The man keeps his hand planted firmly on Alfred's leg just above the knee. "Please, _try_ to behave yourself, Albert. If I was really nothing more than a slave to my desires, we would be engaged in something a little more pleasant than _chit-chat_, don't you think?"

Throat tight, Alfred nods. He supposes it's true...

"In any case, I have a proposition for you." Giving said thigh a gentle squeeze, Herbert removes the offending hand in order to fold it over his lap with the other. "I take it you enjoy your humanity?"

"Yes," he replies, though quietly. "...Very much so."

Herbert hums thoughtfully in response. "As I'm aware you already know, we have a little soiree every winter to keep the family lively, and so I think it goes without saying that Father and I would be _ever_ so delighted if you would care to join us in the celebration next year."

Alfred blinks, somewhat stupefied. "You mean to say I have a choice?"

Herbert laughs, though it does nothing for his nerves. "_Bien sûr_! _Absolutely_, my dear...though what form you would prefer to take for the event depends _entirely_ on what happens between now and the end of the year."

He doesn't even bother to ask the vampire what he means. It's already clear in the way Herbert is smiling at him.

"Father and I are of the opinion that we need to save humanity from itself," the vampire elaborates, "which means you have until then to convince us that you'd be better off human than one of our own."

..._Convince_ them...?

...that it was better to be '_human'_?

"Why can't you just take my word for it?"

Herbert looks as though he'd very much like to touch him again.

Alfred sincerely hopes he doesn't.

Instead, the immortal stands, smoothing down the front of his vest as he wanders around the bed toward the window. Though his destination is the curtains, his eyes never leave Alfred as he glides across the room.

Alfred feels so terribly small where he lays.

Grasping the heavy curtains with both hands, Herbert takes one last look at Alfred before turning completely to the window and flinging them wide open.

There's an azure glow that halos Herbert's fair head, not from the direct light of the sun but rather the gentle blush of the distant horizon still warmed by its brilliance. The same light dwindles like the last fiery lick of a smoking candle, snuffed out without so much as a whimper, to leave Alfred completely at the mercy of the beast.

He's never felt so alone in his entire life.

"You're not as naive as you'd like me to think," Herbert murmurs absently, back still turned to the room as he admires the twilight landscape below. "You're young and nervous and you don't have much of an opinion of yourself, but you like to keep a careful eye on your company and you care very much for the safety of your companions... This is why you can't pretend with me, Alfred. You know _exactly_ what I want."

Slowly, Hebert turns. Folding his hands deliberately behind his back, he takes a few calculated steps to close the distance between himself and the bed, almost _playfully_, as if this is all a game.

The feeble candlelight blazes in his eyes.

"Convince me that there are benefits to your corporeal warmth, Alfred..." He presses one knee into the mattress, and then the other, before crawling forward until he's hovering over the boy. His hair curtains his face. "..._Dazzle_ me, if you will."

Alfred doesn't know what to say.

He wishes he could move.

"I-I don't..." he stammers before he can stop himself. "I don't think I can."

Herbert doesn't look discouraged though. The man's eyes flicker briefly to Alfred's throat before giving him a firm pat on his cheek. "I think you're capable of a great deal more than what you give yourself credit for, Alfred, but I digress... You must be hungry."

"But I'm not—"

"Nonsense. That's the fever speaking!" Herbert leans back carefully onto his knees, eyes trained on Alfred before he slips off the corner of the bed. "I think I shall also draw you up a bath."

"But really—"

"I _should_," Herbert interjects. "It's the blood, darling. You simply _reek_ of it..."

He tries hard not to sniff, but when Herbert finally turns his back, he submits to his curiosity. He can't smell a thing, but _then_...

Reaching up to touch his throat, he gingerly prods the scars there. Sarah had attacked him last night after their _grand_ escape. She almost _bit_ him. If not for the professor—

The professor...

_Oh_.

_Abronsius_.

Fear had been his constant companion this evening, but anguish was yet new to him and he feels its sharp pangs now like an arrow to his heart. Unless his fevered mind is mistaken, Abronsius had saved him from Sarah—_literally_ threw his life away to keep Alfred from succumbing to her bite...

Poor Abronsius...Poor, _stupid_, wonderful Abronsius, too blinded by his thirst for knowledge to sense what was going on around him, but not so far gone as to miss what was truly beautiful in life. Alfred knows he has no direct way of thanking his mentor, but he supposes that if he is ever to survive this affair, he must continue the professor's work. Never shall the world surrender to those creatures of the night! Alfred will make certain of it.

Quietly, Herbert begins to hum again. Alfred can hear the water sloshing in the tub as it drawn from the archaic pipes, undoubtedly warm and fragrant, exactly as Herbert prefers it. Just as long as the viscount doesn't decide to crawl into the bath with him or do anything else untowardly, Alfred doesn't care what Herbert does between now and tomorrow night. He has a year yet to plan his escape. That is all.

Turning over onto his side, he watches as the world descends into darkness beyond his windowpane. Out there, he realizes, is the world he loves...

Out there is _freedom_.

**A/N:** The ending must sound choppy and I apologize for that. My muses have been running on a quarter of a tank of gas lately and I've been struggling to write at least half-decent fic.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed!

Translations:

"_En effet, je parle français"_ ~ 'Of course/indeed, I speak French' (French)

"_Bien sûr"_~ 'Of course' (French)


End file.
